Intoxicated

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Intoxicated Page 10

by Cynthia Dane


  “You really want me to suffer.”

  “You saying you don’t deserve it?”

  I say nothing, actually. All I have to say is expressed through my trembling legs and the sound of my pussy getting punished.

  Drew’s not going to rest, though. Like an idiot, I let him shove me down and lean over me like he’s about to rip out of my throat.

  No, he’s silencing me with his hand while going hard at my cunt.

  If there’s one thing that will make me come during sex, it’s a man who knows how to take total charge while still thinking of my pleasure. Drew pounds me like he’ll never have the fortuitous chance again, but he does so with the finesse of a man who is used to pleasuring women with his cock. He makes consistent eye contact that only inspires me to look back at him, daring him to play his hand. My toes curl over the edge of the bed. My lips beseech his. When he kisses me one last time, it’s with his hand wrapping around my neck, a bold move that simultaneously gets me off and makes me understand whose bed this is.

  Drew’s cock is so thick with cum that it beelines straight for my fucking G-spot.

  That’s it. I’m a goner. Say goodbye to that small shred of dignity. My eyes have completely rolled back, and I’m gagging on my own breaths to get across how much I live for this. The man. The sex. The wave of triumph I indulge in when Drew gently rubs my clit and makes me come so hard that I’m screaming incoherent sounds into his hand.

  I’m convinced he’s going to come. Yet after two hard waves of orgasm, I’m flat on my back and so wet that Drew almost struggles to stay inside of me. Lest I think him inexperienced, he tugs on my hips again, hands on my breasts as he’s given unprecedented access to my pussy.

  My orgasm subsides. He’s still fucking me.

  I suddenly realize what the fuck I’m doing.

  You know how they say men have instant regrets once they come? We women aren’t so different! I’ve come hard enough to knock myself unconscious, and now I’m staring into the triumphant grin of a man I detest about to fill me up and do God knows what else.

  I let the tiniest shred of doubt creep onto my face. It doesn’t matter I’m quickly getting fucked into another climax. I know what Drew is about to do, and my twisting toes and humping hips betray what I really think about it.

  “That’s right.” His smug grin eats right through my soul. I want to protest. I want to tell him to stop, to get off me, to stop fucking me so damn good. Yet between the newer, harder orgasm about to hit me, and the realization that this is what I probably deserve, I stay silent outside of a few pitiful squeaks. My lip is beneath my teeth. My helpless hands grab at the air. I must look so pathetic, with my skirt up around my waist and my blouse looped behind my head. My tits are bouncing like we’re riding cowgirl, but no. Drew is piledriving into me, and he’s so damn hot doing it that I think I’ll close my eyes and silently scream. “You fucking came,” he continues, “so now I get my reward.”

  It all comes undone. My brave face. My determination to win the war. I realize he’s really the winner here. Any number of my exes could be watching us right now and laughing into their piles of money that a bitch like me is completely at the mercy of Drew Benton’s cock.

  He draws it out as much as he can. Every other word out of his mouth is about reminding me of what’s about to happen. I get one hand loosely around my throat while the other pins down my hip so he can come to a still, back arching and cock so engorged that I’m completely entranced by his sweaty visage ready to thunder its triumph.

  Drew’s got me right where he wanted me all along. On my back, on his bed, legs spread and pussy drinking his cum.

  The first wave shocks me to the point you’d think I had never done this before. My nails hopelessly claw at his chest as I let out my pitiful wails of defeat. I’m so seduced by the sensations that come in the rolling waves of a long, happy climax that I beg him to keep fucking me after he’s emptied himself. His victorious gaze never leaves me as he swirls his hips between my legs and slides his tongue into my mouth. A satisfied sigh falls down my throat.

  “Tell me how much you love it,” Drew says from a faraway place.

  I shudder. “I fucking love it.” I don’t recognize that whiny voice. It’s definitely not mine.

  Slowly, he pulls out, admiring his handiwork. I completely give in to the bed beneath me. Every drop of shame within me is only matched by the seed gushing out of me.

  To add glorious insult to injury, Drew gives his cock one tug and shoves it back in. The mighty growl launching into the air matches the unnatural way his seed continues to spill out of me.

  He’s not going to let me go. Not until he’s good and sure that I know what a slut I am.

  Chapter 9

  DREW

  I pound this stake into the earth like I pounded my dick into that woman three days ago.

  BAM BAM BAM. Witness my hammer slam onto a piece of freshly cut wood. The dirt splits open, bits of leaves and soil flying everywhere as the stake goes in a little bit deeper each time. Watch as I keep thinking about sex. BAM BAM BAM. That’s about to be my thumb between hammer and stake.

  A whistle flies out of me once I realize I’m about to kill my left thumb. Stepping back and wiping my hand on my jeans, I bend over and attempt to reclaim my breath. The fresh country air is heaven to my lungs, but it’s not clearing my head the way I want. I’ll be a lucky bastard if I can stop thinking about Cher for two seconds. The whole reason I’m out here in the middle of Nowhere, Washington, is so I can get away from her.

  And to help my lovely grandmother, who has lost another chicken since this portion of her fence went down last week. She doesn’t rely on the eggs to live, but I have a soft spot for animals, especially those that meet untimely ends because my jerk ass couldn’t get here faster to fix a damn fence.

  The real reason I’m near Onalaska, though, is so I can get the hell away from Cher. I haven’t seen her since Tuesday afternoon, when she showed up and dared me to fuck her, but she’s been haunting my dreams and appearing on the back of my eyelids every time I close my eyes. I want to blame it on the mind-blowing hate sex we had. Anyone else, and that’s what I would say changed my perception of sex for a whole week.

  Cher is not “anyone else,” though. She’s on a whole ‘nother level of mindfucking existence. She’s not merely a succubus out to suck me dry of my vitality. She’s out to destroy me, like I was out to ruin her. Except there’s no pay day in it for her. She flew by my apartment to chew me out, rip me open a new asshole, and to sink her teeth into my jugular the moment I came deep inside of her holy shit fucking hot pussy like God damn.

  The hammer plops to the ground. I slowly stand up, crack my back, and shake my head. Sweat beads down my forehead. The old trucker hat – this one black and red, or at least I think it was always meant to be red and not some other color – clings to my hair. I sit back in the dirt. Arms wrap around my knees as I let out a sigh between my thighs.

  Guess who’s hard! Again!

  A man can’t touch himself in his grandmother’s house. It isn’t done, though this will be my second night camping out in my grandma’s guest room. I can jack off all day in my childhood home, though. Shit, that’s where I learned to do it! But in my grandma’s little farmhouse, with her CPAP machine whining two doors down from me? I’d rather die, thanks.

  Maybe I came here to suffer, not to get over Cher. Plague my imagination with memories of her tight cunt and the feisty snarl painted across her face. The way she demanded I fuck her though we clearly detest one another on a spiritual level was so hot it’s a miracle I didn’t come sooner than I did. I give credit to the round I had with myself in the shower before she came to my door. It’s great for stamina.

  “Is the fence done yet?” my grandmother’s voice booms from the porch. Birds clear from the trees around us. A bee buzzes away. The screen door slams behind my grandmother’s petite but hardy body. She wipes her hands on her apron and gives me her best scowl. “Why are you
sleeping in my yard? That fence isn’t fixed!”

  No, Gram, it sure isn’t!

  “Had to take a break!” I lift my head to shout back. “Almost hammered my thumb!”

  “You’ve got balls for brains or something?” She throws her hands up toward the clear blue sky. “Meanwhile, Henrietta is over here wondering where her best friend Lucrecia went. You know what happened to Lucrecia? SNAP! Right into the jowls of a coyote!”

  “I know! Taking a break, that’s all!”

  My grandmother grunts something at my expense before going back inside. I roll onto my side and stare at the expansive woods growing on the hillside behind my grandmother’s house. A few wisps of smoke announce that neighbors are burning something or other. The scent of pollen makes me grateful for my allergy medication.

  This should be the perfect combination for clearing my head. I get to express myself in building my grandmother a new fence! You know me. I like to get crafty. And handsy. And be outdoors as much as possible, especially if I’m outside the cities.

  Why isn’t it helping today?

  Lord help me, I know why. Her name is Cher Lieberman, and she hasn’t left my thoughts for three whole days.

  When the regret settled in after our hookup, she stole into my bathroom while I pounded my head against my pillow and chastised myself for being an absolute idiot. Nice and dumb of me to fuck her raw. Then I had to go and come inside her? I don’t care if it sounded really hot at the time. That’s not how I usually roll. Don’t get me wrong. Like most men, I love a world of condomless sex. Only if that condomless sex comes with trust and sexual safety, though. I’ve been around the block enough times to know what’s out there. Seen more than one of my idiot friends get infected with God knows what because they convinced their girlfriends to leave the condoms in the nightstand. I should have insisted, instead of letting my happy dick do the damn talking. What does he know! His motives are completely against mine. I learned that the hard way when I slept with my family’s maid. One twenty years older than me, which I thought was tragically hot at the time. Now I’m embarrassed.

  Like I’m embarrassed about Cher.

  When she came out of my bathroom, it was with downcast eyes and her hypothetical tail tucked between her legs. We didn’t say a single word to each other as she grabbed her bag, checked its contents, and hauled ass out of my apartment. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.

  But she’s been in my dreams. I wonder if I’m in hers?

  Why would I care?

  Don’t ask me why she haunts me like this. I think we can agree that she’s a toxic lay, and that’s being nice. Cher must not think much of either. I can’t believe I was made. Not only does she know who I am, but she might tell other women about me. Whatever she did to find out about my company? Props to her. Usually, most women chalk up my dirtbaggery to me being the privileged asshole that I am deep inside.

  Privilege my grandmother loves to smack out of me.

  “You want this nice, cold ice water?” I hear my grandmother’s voice before I feel the freezing cold water on top of my head. I leap up, hooting like a man who has pressed his hand against a hot stove. Instead of fire, however, I’ve got ice cubes going down the back of my shirt and drenched bangs pressed against my forehead. My hat is so soaking wet that I rip it off and toss it onto the sundrenched porch. My grandmother chuckles before turning her back on me. “Then get back to work!”

  There’s always something to be said for a cold shower.

  I finish the fence shortly before dinner. Grandma serves up chicken fried steak, potatoes, and steamed corn that quickly finds its way into the depths of my potatoes. She’s generous with the gravy, and loves to call me her “growing boy” although I’m an age where I should be watching what I eat instead of chowing down like I’m fifteen again. Irene Benton has the best home cooking this side of the Canadian border, though. She often fought with my grandfather’s cooks to get more control in the kitchen. Sunday dinners were always cooked by her. That was how I came to appreciate real food made of grit and sweat. My parents prefer their personal chefs to be Italian superheroes, and while I love me a mean lasagna, I’m not as big of a fan of oysters cluttering up the pasta sauce or “freshly picked oregano” getting stuck between my teeth. I’d rather have a big pot of simple spaghetti and meatballs. I don’t care if the meat is beef, pork, or turkey, nor do I care if someone named Mrs. Dash helped season it.

  “I’ve got that cherry pie I promised you for dessert.” Grandma is all smiles as we eat dinner. She lives for me chowing down like that boy she helped raise. Meanwhile, I’ll forever remember her pouring ice water on top of my head. To be fair, Henrietta the hen was quite appreciative of me fixing the fence so she doesn’t have to worry about imminent death. When I fed the chickens shortly before dinner, she came right up to me and clucked against my leg.

  Chickens are adorable. I’d take one home with me if I thought my mother wouldn’t have a cow, instead.

  “Not sure I’ll have room for pie after I finish one of your amazing dinners, Gram.” Props to me for saying that with a full mouth and not choking. Water washes down whatever I can’t immediately swallow. “This is really good.”

  She’s never minded the fact I’ll speak with my mouth full. The only one in my family. People wonder why I love her so much.

  “Growing boys need food. You’ll find the room, son. Besides,” my grandmother takes a small bite of her own cooking, “you’ve clearly got something on your mind. You usually finish your work in record time. I tell you, in another life, you would be a helluva contractor.”

  I’ve thought about it. I’m much happier building things than tearing people down.

  “Work’s been a bit nuts lately,” I admit. “My most recent client has sent me on an impossible mission. I’ve gotta figure out a way to let him down and refund his money.”

  My grandmother doesn’t know what I do. She only knows what the rest of my family does, which is that I have a “consultation” business in Seattle. Grandma never had much to do with her ex-husband’s businesses, so I can get away with vague statements and using business jargon to make her eyes glaze over and the questions stop. That doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally have a good rant about what I put up with, though. Especially if that something includes an impossible woman named after an old pop star.

  “What makes it so impossible? Thought you said there wasn’t anything you couldn’t ‘conquer.’ Your word, by the way.”

  Thanks for the reminder, Grandma. “Sometimes you get so good at your job that they throw you a crazy curveball.” Ah. Yes. Crazy curveball. Excellent way to refer to Cher. “Anyway, it’s not going to work with the current client. I have to figure out how to let him know. I rarely fail, you know. So it’s hard on my ego.”

  “At least you can admit it. Unlike your grandfather, who saw his failures as the perfect opportunity to invest more money into hair-brained schemes. Did I ever tell you that he took my inheritance and squandered it on a horse at the racetrack?”

  “Yes, Gram.”

  “Still haven’t forgiven him for that, and he’s dead now.” Her cackle startles me mid-swallow. You wouldn’t guess that my grandmother is twenty years younger than my grandfather, but then again, you wouldn’t guess that my mother is in her sixties. Has nothing to do with plastic surgery in my grandmother’s case, though. She simply has the best genetics you’ve seen. The woman is well into her seventies and not about to quit the farming, country life. “So if you can admit that you’ve failed and it’s time to step back and move on… well, maybe there’s hope for you yet. By the way, I take credit for that.”

  “I definitely think you play a part in it, Gram.”

  “So, you’ve got a decent girl yet?” Boy, does she know how to jump right to the next topic sure to neuter my mood! “Last time I asked, you were seeing some blondie who could barely string a sentence together. One of these days you’re going to want to settle down and realize you’re surrounded by idiot
s, because that’s all you’ve attracted in your life.”

  I chuckle. Naturally, my thoughts turn to Cher, who is somewhere in Portland right now picking her next mark. It’s Friday night, after all. She’s got my dick out of her system and is ready to shine her deadly star onto some poor sod who won’t see her meteorite coming. “I saw someone real briefly. Lasted about a week. Last week, actually.”

  “She must be special if you have the balls to tell me about your most recent hookup.”

  I want to rebut that she was not a hookup, but I would be lying. I’m not sure if I would call what happened with Cher a hookup, per se, but we definitely had sex. That was definitely my dick pummeling her against my bed, and that was definitely her humping her hips against mine and her voice daring me to do the nasty.

  I shovel more food into my mouth before my grandmother can see me blush.

  “She was definitely beautiful,” I mutter. That’s the second thing that will haunt me about Cher for the rest of my life. That raven-black hair was as silky as I imagined it. Her figure was both impossibly perfect and carrying enough realism that I could tell she never had anything done. Those tits! Jesus! Have a pair ever bounced from the force of my hips like that before? No! I can’t decide what was hotter. Cher unable to hold back her orgasm, or that defiant face she gave me every time I suggested we might be enjoying it. “Even for my standards.”

  “You dating beautiful women isn’t new. I keep telling you it will get harder when you’re older, but by then those lovely ladies will only be dating you for your money. Right now you’ve got good looks and that smarmy charm going for you. It’ll be slimmer pickings and more obvious floozies flipping through your pocketbook soon enough. Trust me, once you hit thirty, the rest of your life starts coming at you like you’ve never believed. I’m still convinced that I was thirty-eight only last November.”

  “I wasn’t born yet when you were thirty-eight…”

  “Uh huh.”

  That’s all she says before she goes back to her meal. I’m inclined to join her, although I’ve swallowed so much water I need to get up and refill the pitcher. Grandma barks at me to make sure the faucet filter is turned on. I wave that I was about to do that.

 

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